


Away

by synchronik



Series: Not The Prettiest Game [7]
Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-20 06:43:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2418911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synchronik/pseuds/synchronik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the 2014 Wild Card Game, the clubhouse isn't silent, but it feels silent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Away

**Author's Note:**

> Again, the game is real. The rest is not.

The clubhouse isn't silent. There's the piped-in music--Country Wednesday--turned down as low as it can be without turning it off, and the hiss of the showers, and the mumbles of the staff, and the small noises of guys taking stuff out of their lockers. There'll be a final pack-up day, Friday, Chris thinks it is, but almost everyone's bag is already fat with personal belongings. 

So it's not silent, but it feels silent. 

It feels silent even when Chris says goodbye to a couple of the guys, clapping Cutch on the shoulder and hugging Russ. "Good playing with you, Stew," Russ says. "Again." 

Chris smiles. "Text me when you sign somewhere, so I know where I'm going." 

Russ laughs and hugs him again. "Later, man." 

Chris hitches his bag over his shoulder and heads out. He has to go past the door to the visitor's clubhouse and he can hear the shouting and the laughing and the music cranked to full volume (ironic, the country theme for Madison's night on the mound. Maybe they should have played 80s, instead), even through the metal doors. 

He ducks his head and keeps walking. He had hoped...he had hoped for a lot of things, starting with a win tonight. It had seemed so possible at first. They'd been riding such a hot streak, piling on win after win, everyone hitting, even him, and San Francisco was slumping, struggling, backing into a Wild Card spot. It was in the bag. 

He had been there the first time Brandon Crawford hit a grand slam. It had been that series in Milwaukee, after Buster Posey had broken his ankle. His first series with the Giants. Brandon's first game. Everyone had been shell-shocked, going through the motions, a zombie team, and then Crawford had stepped into the box and brought them back to life. Chris remembers Crawford's smile as he came down the dugout steps, hands up to receive the applause of his teammates, eyes sparkling. 

"Easy out, baby," one of the Pirates staff had shouted tonight. "Easy out." Chris was sure he was the only one who heard--the crowd had been at full volume since the line-up was announced--but his stomach had dipped just the same. 

"Oh," he had said, just once, softly. 

And then it was over. The crowd fell silent except for moans of pain, Madison throwing strike after strike, the runs piling up against them. Chris watched the postseason slip away like a good dream. He's been through two of these, now, and this one is worse. He'd been a sub on the Yankees, a yeoman, filling a spot, but this year, he was a member of the _team_. 

"Chris?" 

He turns. Ryan, his face flushed, his shirt stuck to him from the champagne shower, his hair poking up in wet points. Chris wants to grab him and bury his face in Ryan's solid shoulder. Ryan is staying at the hotel this trip, instead of at home, because there's too much to do, too much at stake to be away from the team. 

Was. There _was_ too much at stake. 

"Hey," he says, staying back. "Good game." 

But Ryan doesn't stay back. He grabs Chris around the neck and pulls him close. He reeks of cheap beer and cheaper champagne, and Chris feels it soaking through his button down shirt, second hand celebration. "Oh, baby," Ryan murmurs against his throat. He sounds sad. "Baby." 

Chris pauses. Ryan's drunk, and there will be many pictures like this, guys gazing drunkenly into one another's eyes, delirious with happiness. But he shouldn't be in any of them. "Ryan," he says. 

"Are you okay?" Ryan's question is supposed to be a whisper, but it's like a wind tunnel in his ear. 

"Yeah," Chris says. He's not, not at the moment, but he will be. It's just another loss, and one of the things that you do in baseball is lose. Games you were never in, like this one, and games you should have won. Big games and small games. Hard and easy. If you can't get over losing, you don't make it out of little league. 

"I wanted it to be both of us," Ryan slurs against his neck. "I wanted both of us." 

"Me too," Chris says, and that's when his philosophy deserts him and he feels what has happened. 2014 is over. He doesn't know where he'll be next year, if he'll ever make another playoff team again, if he'll ever make another big league roster again. He knows nothing and now it's gone. 

He shudders. 

"Shh," Ryan says. "Oh shhh baby." And then Chris's face is in his big rough hands and Ryan's kissing him, deep and sloppy and tasting of beer and love. 

Chris falls into it, his arms tight around Ryan's waist. They're pressed together and he feels his dick getting hard, but it's an afterthought, beside the point. He wants to fuck Ryan up against a wall, right now, but more than that he wants to kiss Ryan and tell him how much this hurts and how happy he is at the same time. 

When they finally break apart, gasping, Ryan's eyes are dazed. Chris has had no beer, no champagne, but he knows his are the same. He's leaning in, mouth already open, when someone clears his throat. 

Chris freezes. 

Ryan freezes. 

They freeze. 

"Hey, um," Brandon Crawford says. "Hey, Stew." 

"B," Chris says. He releases Ryan gradually, relaxing out of the embrace, like it's not a big deal. It's not. It's no deal. "Nice hit." 

Crawford smiles and Chris is struck once again by how fucking _attractive_ Crawford is, how charmed. 

"Yeah, well, I'm here for my bat," Crawford says, and Chris surprises himself by laughing, and then they're all laughing, the sound ricocheting in the hallway and bouncing away. 

"So, um..." Crawford says. "...this is the hallway." 

"Yeah." Chris takes a step back. But Ryan, drunk and belligerently happy, reaches out and grabs him around the waist. Chris struggles briefly, but Ryan's grip is firm. He's a fucking anaconda of love. 

"This is my boyfriend," Ryan declares. 

Chris sucks in a breath. It's not like Crawford is going to bust them--Crawford has his own same-sex predilections and is also a good Bay Area kid--but still, for Ryan to be saying shit like that in public is not a great idea, especially not with all the reporters around. 

Crawford grins, ducking his face into his hand, the way you do when your kid swears for the first time and it's hilarious and also sort of makes you proud, but you don't want to encourage it. "Sure, Vogey," he says. The glance he exchanges with Chris is conspiratorial. 

"You're my boyfriend," Ryan tells Chris, kissing him on the face, the neck. It's like being kissed by a puppy, more enthusiasm and spit than accuracy. It's charming and Chris really wants it to stop. 

"Okay, I think it's time for the team picture," Chris says loudly. 

"Oh, yeah, Vogey," Crawford says, catching on. He holds out one hand. "I came to get you for the team picture." 

For a second, it doesn't look like it's going to work. Ryan sways against Chris, almost pushing him off his feet, face blearily close. "I gotta go," he says. "Team picture." 

"Sure," Chris says. "You got to." 

Ryan pulls him close one more time, his grip so tight it hurts. "I love you," he murmurs. "I love you so much." 

Chris shuts his eyes against the tears. "Yeah," he says. "I know. See you in November." 

"Okay," Ryan says. He steps back, staggering a little, pointing a finger at Chris. "I love you," he says loudly. "I. Love. You." Point, point, point. 

It's both adorable and horrifying. Chris wants to laugh and also wants Ryan to shut up. 

"Okay, V," Crawford says, taking his arm. 

"He's my boyfriend," Ryan tells Crawford. "I love him." 

"Yeah, man, we all do," Crawford says. He opens the clubhouse door with his free hand and a fresh wave of music and shouting pours out. "Picture time." 

"PICTURE TIME!" Ryan shouts. "Bye, baby!" 

Crawford waves. Chris lifts a hand, and then the door closes behind them. Through it, he hears someone shout "Vogey!" He stands there for a minute, looking at the closed door. 

Then he turns and walks away. 


End file.
